Shattered
by Roxanne15927
Summary: After what seems like a perfectly ordinary murder, Sherlock's behavior takes a turn for the worse and John demands to know why. The detective in response gives John an old puzzle box and promises him he can have all the answers-provided he can solve the box, that is. NO Johnlock, please read, review and share!
1. Broken

1. Broken

Sherlock got the call mid afternoon, which wasn't unusual, of course-but the way he reacted to the call was.

John liked to think he had been living with Sherlock long enough to tell when the detective reacted differently than usual (the detective in question would probably scoff at this idea), and so he was curious when Sherlock's expression changed ever so subtly during the call, his eyebrows furrowing just the smallest bit.

"What is it?" John asked when Sherlock had hung up.

Sherlock actually hesitated, a slight frown curving his lips. "Murder."

"Yes, I understood that, thank you. So, where is it?"

"What?" Sherlock asked distractedly after a moment's silence.

"Where is it?" John repeated again, studying his friend curiously.

"Oh." Sherlock blinked once, glancing at John once before immediately looking away. "Uh, you know what, John, you can just stay home this time, no need to come with." Sherlock said, his voice light and far too casual.

"No need to come with-? Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Nothing." Sherlock was already heading for his coat, tying his scarf around his neck. "I don't need your assistance today, I am perfectly capable-"

"What the h-"

"Don't wait up."

"Sherlock-"

"_Don't wait up_."

Sherlock made his exit, slamming the door behind him.

John's eyebrow furrowed, still trying to process what had just happened. True, Sherlock never really invited John to come along, by now it was just an unspoken agreement between them that the doctor would accompany the detective to each crime scene, it was normal. But Sherlock actually dissuading John from coming? That wasn't normal. There had to be something odd about the case, but what?

Well, John wasn't just going to sit here and wait around for Sherlock to come back-he had to see for himself. He stood up and stretched, working out the kinks in his neck from sitting so long. He walked to the door, pulling his coat from the rack as he went.

Sherlock was wrong if he thought John was just going to let this go.

As he left the flat, he texted Lestrade.

_Sherlock took off without telling me where the crime scene was.  
-JW_

He hailed a taxi, and as he got into the car he got a reply from Lestrade, which contained the address of the crime scene.

John gave the address to the cabbie, and as they drove off, a nagging, uncomfortable feeling in the back of his mind, asking him if it was really a good idea to interfere. He shook it off; Sherlock was probably being unnecessarily mysterious just because he was bored, and this wouldn't be the first time he had done that either.

John arrived at the crime scene about ten minutes later, which was in an alley behind an old, rundown row of buildings.

The body, a middle aged, dark haired man in a dirty business suit, lay on his back on the ground, a bloody bullet hole in his forehead, his eyes staring vacantly at the sky. Lestrade and Donovan were standing a few feet away from the body, and Sherlock was kneeling beside it, his back facing John.

"We ran his ID," Lestrade was saying. "His name was-"

"Luke Fleming," Sherlock interrupted. "40 years of age, unmarried, comes from a rich family, all deceased except for the father."

Lestrade's mouth dropped. "How would you know all that? You've barely looked at him since you got here!"

"Don't worry about how I know," Sherlock snapped, glaring up at Lestrade. "I just know, isn't that enough?"

John raised a skeptical eyebrow. Sherlock never passed up a chance to display his intellectual prowess and make everyone else feel like dolts, the detective was a complete show-off.

"You're right about all that, Sherlock, but how did you know?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock huffed irritably and stood up, pulling his gloves back on. "He ate at an Italian restaurant before he died, and was followed here by his murderer." Before Lestrade could ask how again, Sherlock continued. "He has a receipt in his left pocket, and the restaurant in question is in that direction," he said, pointing to the right, and stepping in front of the body's feet. "He was heading in the other direction when the murderer got his attention, and when he turned around to see he was shot." John could now see Sherlock from the side, and he looked almost angry. Was he angry at the murderer? Did this man mean something to him? Then John noticed that he was actually glaring at the dead man himself, and that crushed his former, fleeting suspicions. Sherlock clearly had no kind feelings for the dead man at his feet. He could almost hear what Sherlock wanted to say-_I wish I had done this myself_.

It was then Sherlock noticed John's presence. He swore loudly, whirling around to face John. "What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded to know. "I thought I told you not to come!"

Donovan actually chortled a bit when John took a hasty step backwards. Yes, he should have not interfered, and suddenly for some reason was not able to think of any logical reasons why he was there. _I thought you might need me _was certainly a stupid excuse, Sherlock didn't actually _need_ John at any crime scene. _I wanted to_ _see what you were up to _wasn't a very good reason either, in fact, it bordered on just plain creepy. So, instead, John settled for a more intelligent approach.

"I...I...um..."

"Go home, John," Sherlock said darkly. "Don't make me ask again."

John turned on his heel and quickly made his escape, face burning red, feeling the eyes of all Scotland Yard watching him as he left. John groaned inwardly as he hailed another cab. He was a bloody soldier, for goodness' sake, he should have known better, should have had a plan. Or, at least, not have let the detective fluster him so easily. What was up with that? He supposed it was because the detective was acting so strangely, being so unpredictable, John didn't know what to expect, didn't know how to act around this odd new side of Sherlock. Well, John reasoned, the detective would have to come home eventually, and the doctor would get a second chance.

###

It was an hour later when Sherlock finally came back to the flat-John had been ready to get the detective to come clean, but Sherlock had walked in, promptly told John to shut up, and went straight to the kitchen. A few minutes later, an unpleasant odor floated in from the kitchen. John wanted to complain but resisted the urge, Sherlock would have ignored him anyways.

The rest of the week went just as smoothly. Sherlock was overly agitated, irritable and generally not that fun to live with-basically, he was exhibiting all his unpleasant qualities at once times one hundred. By the second day, John had lost count of how many times he would have liked to wring the detective's neck (or shoot him and dump him in the nearest river, it depended on his mood). It was true, usually John wanted to wring his flatmate's neck several times a day anyways, but this was just pushing it to the extreme. Soon Sherlock started shutting himself up in his room and not coming out for hours. That was fine by John, Sherlock was driving him absolutely mad.

Besides being stupidly irritating, Sherlock continued to act strangely. He was unusually focused on this Fleming case, one that John had learned was the kind he would usually dismiss as just a six or a seven, and sixes and sevens Sherlock usually moved past or just neglected because they were "boring", but not this time. He was spending every spare second he had on it, even turning down what John thought sounded like a more interesting case, a man who had been murdered in four different ways.

"Can't, Lestrade, sorry," Sherlock had said curtly to the detective inspector, who had actually come to the flat to fetch him.

"What do you mean, you _can't_?" Lestrade demanded, looking flabbergasted.

"Too much to do," said Sherlock simply, already waving him away.

Lestrade laughed. "You mean the Fleming case? Sherlock, really, I'm happy to see that you're so-er, _dedicated _to it, but that's not really what we need-"

"And as usual, Inspector, I don't much care what _you_ need," Sherlock replied coldly. "I told you, I am busy and I am not interested. Now _go_."

Lestrade glanced over at John disbelievingly, and John, unsure of what to say, just shrugged with an apologetic expression. He couldn't explain this any more than the inspector could. The detective was already walking away. "_Goodbye_, Lestrade. I trust you can handle this one on your own. If not-well.." Sherlock stopped, but didn't turn around. "Well, you'll be doing it on your own."

Lestrade didn't protest, his confused expression changing to one of suspicion.

"I'll-I'll try to see if I can-" John began, but the inspector cut him off.

"No, leave it. If he doesn't want to come, don't try to make him come." He moved to leave, then thought better of it, turning back to John. "Keep an eye on him," Lestrade said quietly. "I haven't seen him like this since-you know."

"Oh…" John breathed, understanding. Since his drug days. "Right. I will."

"Good. I'll be in touch." Lestrade gave him what seemed like a sympathetic look, then left.

"Sherlock," John called after the detective, who was heading for the mantelpiece. "Why didn't you take the case-?"

"Don't talk to me," Sherlock snapped, and John's mouth dropped as he pulled a cigarette from behind the skull. He took a lighter out of his pocket and lit it in the middle of John's protest.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"What does it look like?" Sherlock said casually, sucking hard on the cigarette, then blowing out the smoke, partly into John's face.

"Whatever happened to going cold turkey?" John demanded after he had quit coughing. Sherlock shrugged indifferently and continued smoking, his expression blank.

"I said-" John tried again, but Sherlock stopped him. "I heard you. Here's what happened to going cold turkey, John-I decided I wanted to have a cigarette, and now I'm having a bloody cigarette. Not too difficult of a deduction, is it?"

After this incident, John had gone straight to his room and called Mycroft-and though the detective's brother sounded concerned, he just told him precisely what Lestrade had advised him to do-keep an eye on him. "That's what I'm _doing_," he said indignantly to Mycroft, but the elder Holmes had already hung up.

###

One day, after Sherlock had locked himself in his room as what was now becoming usual, John decided it was high time to find out what the detective was up to in his room all the time. He crept up to Sherlock's door and put his ear to it, listening.

Ever so faintly, he could hear a voice-a recorded voice. Was Sherlock watching telly in there?

John was about to move away when the door opened with a bang, giving him a terrific thump on his head and causing him to yelp aloud. Dizzy, his head pounding from the blow he just received, he stumbled backwards and into the kitchen. Reaching out for support, he blindly held out an arm and grabbed for the table, and felt his fingers knock into something, and then there was the loud shattering noise of glass breaking on the floor.

"_John_!" Sherlock roared, and the doctor, his mind instantly cleared by the sound of the glass breaking, turned to see the damage. It was one of Sherlock's large beakers, broken in half, glass spread across the floor.

"What have you done?" Sherlock hissed, stepping into the kitchen. "You _idiot_, what have you done?" The detective was actually terrifyingly livid, breathing heavily, his lips pulled back in an absolutely feral snarl.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," John tried, but Sherlock just growled angrily. "Get out of my way." John stepped aside, and the detective scooped up the broken beaker in his hands carefully, and lifted it gingerly, with an odd sort of reverence.

"You broke it," he said heatedly, looking up at John. "What is wrong with you?"

"I'll buy you another one," said John irritably, brushing the detective insults aside-as usual. "It's just a beaker, it can be replaced-"

"It _can't_ be replaced, you imbecile," Sherlock spat. "This isn't-"

"What?" John asked snidely. He was so sick of all this _crap_, that he barely even felt sorry anymore."Is it made of some kind of special, rare glass-"

"Maybe it is!" Sherlock snapped. "And you broke it!"

"I said I'm sorry, alright?" John said defensively, holding his hands up in the air. "What is wrong with you anyways? You have been acting like a total headcase since that Fleming murder last week- "

Sherlock interrupted him with a loud scoff, still scowling darkly at him. He tossed his head, looking rather like an angry horse.

"Honestly, Sherlock!" John said, "you have been giving me a hard time all week for no reason, and I want to know why."

Sherlock plastered a fake, simpering smile onto his face. "Perhaps it's because my moron of a flatmate destroyed one of my personal possessions," he said, his voice high with faux cheeriness.

_One...two...three...four... _John counted silently in his head, in a vain attempt to calm himself. In a barely restrained voice that was tight with anger, he spoke. "So are you going to tell me what's going on or not?"

"No," Sherlock said stiffly, then winced. He was caught.

"So you admit there _is_ something going on?" John said, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"There is nothing going on except for the fact that you _broke_ my beaker!" Sherlock shouted, shoving the broken beaker in John's face, as if he didn't already know he broke the stupid thing.

"_What_ is so important about the beaker?" John roared.

In response, Sherlock glared at him, then abruptly turned and walked away. "Where's the glue?" he called over his shoulder.

"You can't fix it, Sherlock!" John called back. _onetwothreefourfivesixseven_ "The thing's shattered, I told you-"

Sherlock whipped around, his face absolutely red with rage. "_Yes I can_!" He shouted back, and he marched past John and into his room, slamming the door shut.

A moment later, John heard him lock the door.

_fivesixseven-screw it!_

"Fine!" John yelled at the shut door. "Stay in there _forever_, why don't you? _I_ certainly wouldn't mind!"

"I think I will!" Sherlock yelled back. "In the meantime, why don't you make yourself useful and find me some glue?"

"I'm not your bloody servant!" John shouted. "That's it, I don't know _what_ is wrong with you, but you better get going on sorting it out, because I am done trying to!"

"Good!" Sherlock shouted in response. "Go bother someone else!"

John took a deep breath, then went for his coat, muttering to himself the whole way, absolutely throbbing with anger.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded a moment later.

John didn't answer, pulling on his coat.

"John!"

"I'm leaving." John called back tersely. "I'll be back whenever you're done being such an annoying _git_!"

The detective was quiet for the smallest second. "Well, then don't expect to come back anytime soon!"

"Fine. Good! Then I _won't_ come back!" John yelled, and he strode out the door and slammed it as hard as he could, the sound and force of it reverberating through his entire body as he stomped down the stairs and out of the flat, wanting to be anywhere but here.

**Author's Note: Hello! I didn't expect to post this so quickly-I'm still going through, shall we say, withdrawals from my last story, but I am very excited for this one! And before you get any ideas, no, Sherlock is NOT on a mind altering drug...who would write something like that? *wink* Anyways, hope you liked and please review! :) **


	2. Explain

2. Explain

It wasn't like John and Sherlock hadn't fought before, in fact, it was a regular part of their lives. Yes, they were flatmates, best friends and similar in many ways, but they were also very different, which would naturally would kick up the dust a little, but it was never too intense. The worst that would happen is that John would go out for a few hours, or stay the night somewhere else, but he would always be back by morning; and they would be able to slip easily and almost effortlessly back into their normal routine, the usually ridiculous and meaningless argument put out of their heads.

This time was different. John didn't return until three days had passed, and he was _still_ angry. This wasn't normal because he usually got over all their arguments rather quickly, but then again, this wasn't just a normal argument.

Now it made for a rather awkward return when both of them tried to pretend nothing had happened.

When John had walked in, Sherlock had been staring hard into his microscope, switching slides without even looking.

"Morning," John said stiffly.

Surprisingly, Sherlock looked up. "...Morning."

There was an uncomfortable silence as the two stared at each other, the tension in the air thick and far too palpable for either of their tastes.

"You've been gone awhile," Sherlock commented, irritatingly feigning nonchalance.

"...Yes."

"Sarah's?"

"Um...no. Mike's, actually."

"Hmm."

"Yeah."

"Well."

Sherlock cleared his throat and took one of his remaining beakers from the table, twiddling it in his hands.

"You, uh...replaced that beaker, then?" John said.

"Hmm? No, I didn't," Sherlock replied a bit shortly. "Told you already, it can't-"

"Be replaced, yeah, you made that perfectly clear."

Sherlock, whose eyes had wandered away from John's, snapped up again at the crudely disguised coldness in the doctor's voice.

"So, are you ever going to tell me what's so important about it?" John asked calmly, his voice just the slightest bit strained.

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose. "How many times do I need to say it doesn't concern you?" He asked, his light tone obviously forced.

"You've never said that," John responded tightly.

"Like you just said, I made it perfectly clear."

"So why shouldn't it concern me?" John asked, his voice raising slightly.

"Because it's not important to you." Sherlock said waspishly.

"You were acting like it was pretty bloody important a few days ago!"

"Why do you want to know, anyways?" Sherlock shouted, getting to his feet. "Why would it matter to _you_-?" He cut off, his mouth turning upwards into a derisive, smug smile. "Oh-_oh_, I see."

"See what?" John snapped.

"Oh, why don't you just go ahead and ask," Sherlock said, and the two circled each other slowly. "I know you want to. Did you think I haven't noticed the way you have been watching me? The way you _all _have been watching me?"

John didn't respond, watching the detective carefully.

"Go ahead!" Sherlock demanded, his voice rising, taking on a slightly hysterical note. "Ask me! Ask me why again, John. _Oh_, it's drugs, isn't it, Sherlock?" He said in a mocking, high voice, waving his hands about in a manic way. "Cold turkey, we agreed, Sherlock, you promised me you wouldn't, Sherlock!" He dropped his hands, his expression cold and empty. "Go ahead, John," he said, resuming his normal voice. "Ask. _Me_."

John took a deep breath through his nose. He didn't want to humour him, not this time, but it almost seemed dangerous not to. His eyes still locked on Sherlock's, he spoke. "Are you back on drugs?"

Sherlock's expression remained frozen in that same awful, cold and blank expression, then he began to laugh, loud and harsh. "Of course that's what you would think, wouldn't you? The only solution you have, to the question you have been asking me about for days now, is drugs, oh, of course _you _would. You have always stunned me with how ridiculously simple your mind is, but honestly, can't you just _think_ for once?" He snorted, and he strode back to the table.

"Well, what the devil am I supposed to think?" John demanded to know."You're smoking, you're hiding out in your room _all _the time, you look like you haven't slept or even changed clothes in days, you're tired, you're irritable. I know you, Sherlock, and you are not the kind to do that sort of thing so excessively, unless something else is-"

"_You don't know me_!" Sherlock roared suddenly, slamming a beaker on the table with so much force the entire table shook.

The two just stared at each other for a tense moment, neither backing down. Then John said lowly, quietly-"Careful, Sherlock. You wouldn't want to break another one of your _special_, perfect beakers, or one of those test tubes, heaven forbid. Oh, I'm sorry, is the table special too? Irreplaceable?"

Sherlock was quiet, but his expression was nothing short of murderous, his eyes burning with silent rage. John didn't stand down, though he couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy.

Never taking his eyes off John, Sherlock slid off his seat and straightened up. "I have more use for them than I do for you," he said evenly, his voice perfectly steady despite the poorly restrained rage. He might as well have punched John in the chest for how badly that actually _hurt_, and he was sure it showed on his face. Sherlock's expression didn't change.

"_What _did you just say?" John asked.

"I apologize, I should have spoken in plainer terms," Sherlock said snidely. "I know how you tend to be a bit slow about some things." He stepped to the side, then forward, closer to John. He leaned in. "I'll make this simple. I don't need you. So go back to Mike's or wherever you want, go run off and sulk like you always do, go yell at somebody else about their nonexistent problems because you can't face your own."

John was about to answer when Sherlock spoke again. "Ah, what am I saying? You and I both know you have nothing better to do than follow me around like some lovesick puppy dog." He turned around and picked up a beaker from the table, then whipped back around, shaking it in John's face. "You want to know so badly about these beakers?" His voice rose in a high, mocking falsetto. "Then go on, boy. _Fetch_." He threw the beaker at John with the air of tossing a disc to a dog, and instinctively, John caught it.

He was so furious he couldn't even speak, his entire body pulsing with rage. He was honestly debating on whether it would hurt Sherlock more to throw him into the bloody table with all his bloody special beakers or out the window onto Mrs. Hudson's bins, and John had to admit, the latter sounded much more preferable.

"_Fine_!" John bellowed, and threw that stupid beaker as hard as he could. Sherlock dove out of the way just in time, and the beaker instead smashed into the wall behind the detective with incredible force, shattering in a fantastic explosion, the pieces spraying in every direction. Sherlock lay on the floor in front of the wreckage, hands over his face in defensive position against the flying glass. Warily, he removed his hands and looked up at John. There even could have been a bit of shame in the detective's expression, but the doctor was far too angry to see it or to care.

"I'm a dog, am I?" John said. "Fine. At least _I'm_ not a psychopathic freak who's so starved for attention that he'll take anyone who comes along!"

John knew even before he saw the look on Sherlock's face that he had gone much too far. The detective got to his feet, brushing glass off his trousers. "That may be," he hissed finally, "but at least I'm not the pathetic, desperate invalid that I practically had to _drag_ out of the gutter."

John now had had more than enough. He stepped forward, making as if to deliver a well deserved punch to Sherlock's face, but then he stopped, clenching his fists at his sides tightly. Without a word, he turned and began walking towards the stairs, when suddenly he lost all semblance of self control, and without further ado, he threw a punch-but not at Sherlock. His fist collided with the wall, pain exploding in his knuckles as the skin split. Despite his screaming knuckles, John took another swing and punched again, with more force than the first.

He didn't turn back to see Sherlock's reaction, but he could have sworn he heard the detective say his name, a short, small plea. That in itself was almost enough to make John turn back, but then the things Sherlock had called him-_puppy dog, slow, pathetic, desperate, invalid_-echoed again in his mind, and he walked away, going up the stairs and into his bedroom, shutting the door with a slam.

###

John stayed at the flat-he absolutely refused to "run off and sulk", as Sherlock put it. Both of them attempted to go about as normal, but things were understandably and extremely strained between them. They barely spoke, and when they did, it was usually a cold, short exchange that would never last more than about thirty seconds. In one of these exchanges, Sherlock made it clear John was not to accompany him on cases until "further notice". John, though practically bubbling to the brink with anger, didn't argue. _Less time with Sherlock, the better_, he reasoned.

A week and a half had passed since the fight, but there was little to no sign of there being any improvement, until one day, after a completely awkward dinner, John was sitting in his armchair, reading a book when Sherlock came up to him holding a large wooden box. At closer inspection, John saw it was a puzzle box, with just five black square slats on top.

John pointedly looked away, but Sherlock was undeterred by the action, taking the seat across from him.

"John."

John knew it was perfectly childish, but he ignored him, raising the book up in front of his face, staring hard at the words on the page but not comprehending any of them.

"_John_."

John sighed silently, and responded grudgingly, not taking his eyes off the book. "What?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, perhaps waiting for John to put the book down, but the doctor made no movement to do so.

"I've heard it's common courtesy to look at someone while they're talking to you," Sherlock said testily.

John scoffed. They were both so far past trying to be polite to each other, and when was Sherlock one to indulge in common courtesy?

John heard him sigh. "...Fine." The detective said slowly. "Well." He cleared his throat. "It...it has come to my attention that I owe you an explanation-"

John let out a short bark of a laugh. He finally figured that out, had he?

Sherlock was silent for a moment before continuing, a bit stiffly. "An explanation...and an apology."

John lowered the book slightly, just enough to peer at Sherlock over the pages. "You don't apologize." He said tersely.

Sherlock frowned. "Are you going to listen to what I am trying to say or not?"

John stared at him for a moment before giving an affirmative jerk of the head.

Sherlock cleared his throat again, and held out the box. Curious now, John set the book on his lap. "What's this?"

"Look at it and make a deduction," Sherlock said, in a haughty tone worthy of Mycroft. He leaned forward and dropped the box in John's lap before the doctor could make a move. It fell with a heavy thunk, causing John to let out a short grunt as the box hit his legs.

"Thanks," John said sarcastically, his voice coming out quite a bit higher than normal.

"You have questions," Sherlock said, sounding pleased, "and that has your answers."

"_This_ is your explanation?" John asked.

"It's the best one I have," Sherlock replied coolly, standing up.

"What is in here, anyways? Bricks?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking amused. "You figure out how to open it, and you'll see." He turned and began to head toward the kitchen.

"And what about your apology?" John called after him.

Sherlock turned back, smiling smugly. "I gave you that, didn't I?" He gestured to the box in John's lap.

John was about to tell him that that wasn't what was really considered an apology, but Sherlock was already walking away. "Oh," The detective called back, "you'll need to know 47, 78, 110, 80, 112." and with that he disappeared into the kitchen.

**Author's Note: Ahh! Our boys can be so mean to each other! :( **

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and do review and let me know what you think of it! **


	3. The Crack in the Dam

3. The Crack in the Dam

_47 78 110 80 112_

_47 78 110 80 112_

_47 78 110...80...112…_

It had been three days and John had not made any real progress on the box. He did not see at all what the five numbers Sherlock had given him had to do with the puzzle, he had tried all sorts of solutions, anything that came to his head, pressing the button and receiving no results. The numbers repeated over and over in his head in a very tired cycle, nagging at him, almost seeming to be laughing at him for not being able to solve it. He was beginning to think Sherlock had just given him the box as a kind of a sick joke, seeing to what lengths John would go to figure out what was happening with the detective; perhaps the box was empty and this was just a way to stall John's efforts.

Despite all his doubts, he persisted. It gave him something to do while Sherlock was out (while the detective was home they would both be too busy with trying to avoid each other-neither had forgiven the other yet), and also, John couldn't help but be curious.

So he carried on, pushing about the slats and repeating the numbers in his head. The slats were laid out on a nine squared grid, and each one could be moved to any part of the grid. As far as John could tell, he was supposed to make out some sort of pattern, but he couldn't figure out what. The numbers didn't seem to correlate with the slats at all, and John had to wonder again if Sherlock had given him false clues.

When the two had to be together, neither of them spoke of the fight or the puzzle box. They had now moved on to strained, forced politeness, though still tinged with the same coldness from previous exchanges. Neither man was able to shake the weight of the words they had thrown at each other, psychopath, dog, freak, invalid…

Two weeks later and John couldn't decide whether he wanted to make up with Sherlock or not. On one hand, he did rather miss the way things were before, the easy, synchronized flow of their friendship, the odd, but still comfortable domesticity, the cases and the chases…

But on the other hand, Sherlock had dealt him the harshest and lowest of all blows-invalid. Sherlock knew better than anyone, even without John having to say a word, that more than anything else, invalidity was a very sensitive subject for him. All his life, John wanted only to be useful, to be more than just another person taking up space. This desire was what fueled all his actions and life decisions, such as his career as a doctor and his time in the military. The instant before he blacked out after being shot, he knew, by the placement of the wound and the severity, that there was little chance of him remaining in the military, and he was right. When he awoke days later, he was immediately informed that he would be going home. That moment was the first time he remembered his leg hurting-in only seconds, Dr. John Watson had become useless.

This was what sent him spiraling into depression once he came home. It was what caused him to lean so heavily on his cane-he no longer had a purpose and had no way to hold himself up, both physically and mentally. It was true that when John met Sherlock, the detective did practically drag him out of the gutter, and it was true (or at least, John thought so) that the doctor had been desperate and almost pathetic, he had dug himself into a hole so deep he hadn't been sure he would be able to escape.

Now, though better than he had ever been, John was still terrified of becoming useless.

###

"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist," said a hoarse but familiar voice from the doorway. John looked up in surprise to see Sherlock leaning against the doorjamb. He looked completely exhausted, with dark circles beginning to form underneath his eyes, and John realized he hadn't looked at the detective properly for weeks.

"…Yeah." John cleared his throat and put the box aside. "Any progress?"

Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, pulling off his gloves in a nonchalant manner. "I could ask you the same."

Avoiding the question again. Well, two could play at that game.

"So, you know how Luke Fleming was murdered, but you don't have any idea who?"

"Three ideas," Sherlock answered, which surprised John. Since the fight, usually by this point their conversation was over. "Hmm. No, two and a half." He hung up his coat and moved inside, and he surprised John for a second time by slumping into the chair across from him, hands pressed to his temples.

Both were quiet for a few long, awkward moments. John wondered if he should try to say something, try to apologize, but that relentless echo of Sherlock's words that he had pushed to the back of his mind resurfaced again, causing a burning feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words he had wanted to say had been sucked away by the older, terrible words of the detective sitting across from him.

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff, probably feeling as awkward as John was, and after running his hands through his hair, he abruptly stood and walked away.

Then he stopped in the darkened doorway of his room, turning back to face John, but his eyes were not on him, darting back and forth from the wall and the floor, avoiding John's gaze.

"Despite everything that's happened," Sherlock said uncertainly, "I do trust you. And I do-I do want you to know everything. As my…friend...you deserve that at least."

He turned before John had a chance to say anything, and disappeared into his room, shutting the door softly behind him.

John stared after him, and the burning feeling in his stomach subsided some. Sherlock's new, surprising words twisted at his heart, barely penetrating the dark feelings he had about his-friend since the argument.

It wasn't an apology, no-but it was a start.

###

"I expect you're here because my brother is worsening," said Mycroft with an air of feigned nonchalance, staring into his fireplace, his back to the doctor.

"Well-he…he might be getting better. Or worse. I don't actually know. I suppose that's why I'm here."

"Take a seat," Mycroft said, almost carelessly waving a hand towards a chair. John complied and took the chair indicated.

After a moment, Mycroft turned away from the fireplace, an expression on his face that John couldn't quite place. Then it was gone, and the elder Holmes took the seat across from him.

"Sherlock wants _you_ to solve the box, John," Mycroft said casually, reaching for a teacup on the table between them. "He wouldn't have given it to you otherwise. Even if I had the answer, I wouldn't tell you."

John couldn't help but feel a bit bothered and disturbed by how much Mycroft was watching their flat, but he went on. "He hasn't given the box to you?"

"There's no need," Mycroft replied. "I know what is inside."

He didn't elaborate further, and John didn't ask.

"My brother," Mycroft said suddenly, "has probably told you about his habit to 'delete' things he finds unnecessary, correct?"

"He's mentioned it, yes."

"Well, I like to think of it like this, John," Mycroft said, taking a slow sip of his tea. "Certainly meaningless things such as the solar system-" (John bit back a scoff) "-you could say that facts such as that Sherlock _can_ delete permanently."

"Yes, alright, but-"

"But," Mycroft interrupted, "when he applies this deletion process to far more significant details, a larger block of time, all he can do is hide it away, build up a wall around it, delude his mind into believing that it never existed. As you probably have already guessed, this always backfires. Not immediately, of course, but in time, this dam, as I would call it, of those details begins to crack, and when it begins to crack-"

"Sherlock notices," John said. "He tries to stop it."

Mycroft nodded. "Thus we come to the problem."

"So that's what been happening then?" John asked. "This crack in the dam thing?"

"Yes, I think so." Mycroft said thoughtfully. "The behaviors you've described to me seem to fit the situation."

"This has happened before then?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "How else would I be able to identify the behaviors?"

"Right. Okay, yes. So what should I do then?"

"Solve his puzzle, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft, and he stood. "Though none of us, even including myself, will never truly understand my brother, you can at least begin to by solving that box." John followed suit, taking this as his goodbye, and turned to walk to the door.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I may not know the answer to the puzzle, but I do know Sherlock. If I were you, I'd take a good look at his possessions. He professes not to be a sentimental man, but everything he keeps, he keeps for good reason." Mycroft turned away, waving a hand. "Good luck."

"Er-thanks," John said awkwardly, and he made his exit.

###

When John returned, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. This wasn't unexpected, Sherlock was hardly in the flat these days. He hung up his coat and walked further into the darkened flat. He was about to pass Sherlock's room when something made him stop. He considered the risks for a moment, then opened the door and stepped inside. He flipped the switch and light flooded the room, illuminating every single detail. Sherlock didn't keep much out, there was the lamp on his bedside table, the laptop on his bed, the few posters on his wall of skulls and the periodic table.

John moved further inside a bit more confidently now, picking up the laptop from the bed and opening it up.

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

**Password: _**

John swore under his breath. Of course it was password protected...

_47 78 110 80 112….47 78 110 80 112…._

Is that what the numbers meant? Sherlock's password?

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

**Password: ****477880110112 **

The screen flashed red, **INCORRECT **appearing on the screen in large block letters.

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

**TRY AGAIN**

**Password: _**

John huffed. "Think," He found himself saying.

Okay…maybe it wasn't so straightforward. Perhaps the numbers were meant to be translated to letters…

_A=1 B=2 C=3 D=4..._

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

**Password: ****dgghh0aa0aab**

**INCORRECT**

**TRY AGAIN**

**Password: ****DGGHH0AA0AAB**

**INCORRECT **

**You have now entered your password incorrectly three times. **

**Forgotten your password, SHERLOCK HOLMES?**

John huffed again and replaced the laptop back on the bed. So the numbers weren't meant to be his password then, forget that…

He looked over at the posters, shaking his head as he walked by. At this rate, he was going to have to look through Sherlock's closet, and he really didn't want to have to do that. Maybe the beakers were the answer? He moved to leave when something caught his eye.

**47  
****Ag**

Could it be?

So five numbers-

**78  
****Pt**

Five squares-

**80  
****Hg**

**110  
****Ds**

**112  
****Cn**

John inhaled sharply. All the numbers were there-was it really-?

He moved closer to the poster of the periodic table, reaching out a hand. His heart was actually racing, a strange sense of euphoria filling him. It was no wonder Sherlock liked puzzles-was he really solving it?

** 47 **

** 78 80**

**110 112**

Almost laughing aloud, John ran out and up to his room, pulling the puzzle box out from where he had left it. He rushed back down the stairs and back into Sherlock's room.

** [_]**

** [_] [_]**

**[_] [_]**

Holding his breath, he pressed the button to the side of the slats.

_Click._

And the lid opened.

John let out a sigh of both relief and exhilaration, and looked inside, almost shaking with apprehension.

Tapes, dozens of VHS tapes. Each one was marked with a neat handwritten number in the right hand corner, in permanent marker. John wasn't sure, but it looked like as if someone beside Sherlock had written the numbers on these tapes.

This time he did laugh aloud, and he picked up the box and carried it into the sitting room, feeling very pleased with himself. He pulled out tape #1 and inserted it into the VHS player, then turned on the telly.

The screen remained black for a long few moments, and for a moment John was afraid the tapes meant nothing after all.

Then it flickered to life.

**Author's Note: I'm very sorry this took so long, I have been busy with moving and class that I haven't had a lot of time to write! But I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please do let me know what you think! Also, what do you think is on the tapes? Thank you for all your comments, I appreciate all of them! :) **


	4. When Words Fail

4. When Words Fail

John's first impression of the lab that appeared on the screen was that it looked very much like the lab at St. Bart's, but when he looked closer, it was obvious that this was not the same lab. Then again, labs did have a tendency to look the same to him. This one looked more like it was in an university, the more he looked at it, and something about the whole place gave him just the tiniest sense of deja vu.

There was only one student in the entire lab, sitting right in front of the camera, working in not the usual, frenzied manner of a procrastinating college student who had put things off until late, but in a dedicated, serious way, completely engaged in their work, looking as if they would be perfectly content doing just that.

To John's surprise, the student was not Sherlock, but a woman, and a very pretty woman at that. She had a calm, serious look about her, with long light red hair. John couldn't see the color of her eyes because of the barely decent color quality of the video, but he guessed they were blue or green. Since this was an university lab, John assumed she was probably about twenty years old, maybe twenty one. She was wearing a long lab coat that looked as if it was a little too big for her, and she had pulled up the sleeves so they wouldn't get in the way.

"You're doing it wrong."

John's heart began to pound as he recognized the voice that came from offscreen, but the woman wasn't as fazed, she didn't even look up from her work. "Am I?" She asked casually as she examined a half filled beaker. "I'm sorry, but I've reserved this lab time for myself, so if you could-"

"You can't reserve the entire lab for yourself," said Sherlock's voice again, sounding petulant. "It's not in the rules."

She laughed, setting the beaker down. "Something you could learn now, Mr. Holmes, is that sometimes the rules are wrong."

There was a short silence, and then Sherlock stepped onscreen, looking surprised. John was shocked by how remarkably different he looked, but still so much the same. He wore a rumpled, red button down shirt, though this shirt seemed to fit him better than his shirts did now, yet John would still say this one fit him rather snugly. He stood tall, but there was something about his stance that made the confidence seem a bit more forced than natural. John didn't know why he was surprised by how youthful Sherlock looked, not a single line in his face (not that he had that many now) and something about his eyes, his expression was different. His hair was different, more wavy than curly, and the smallest shade lighter.

"How-?" This younger Sherlock spoke, an expression that was close to wonder on his face.

"Oh, everyone knows about the Holmes's," She said casually, looking up at him. "It was only a matter of time until I met one of you…Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him, or rather, she spoke over him.

"That was a guess," she said. "Was I right?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "but how did you know?" He had that look in his eye, the one he gave to John when he was under the impression that someone beside him had actually said something brilliant.

"You don't much look like a Mycroft," she replied simply, and John saw Sherlock's shoulders slump, just a little.

"That," she said, "and I can see your name on your bag."

Sherlock's eyes lit up, obviously excited to see someone else exercise their powers of observation; then he blinked and adopted his ever familiar haughty expression, and it almost seemed as if he was afraid to betray that one moment of excitement to her. In fact, it almost seemed as if he was getting ready to-

"And your name is on your blazer-I can only make part of it out-"

John chuckled to himself-same old Sherlock.

"Harriet," she interrupted him. "Harriet Fleming."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, disgruntled that she interrupted his deductions. "Yes, thank you." He said coldly. "I was-"

"Getting to it?" She offered helpfully. "Mr. Holmes…I do admire that little trick of yours, but you'll have to be a bit quicker in the future."

_It's not a trick._

"You think so?" Sherlock replied, but not kindly. He looked insulted by this, even appalled by her claim that he was not quick enough. "I wasn't finished," he said hotly, straightening his cuffs.

"Then by all means, go ahead and finish," Harriet replied, a small smile curving her lips. "I'm all ears."

Sherlock raised an incredulous eyebrow, and Harriet shrugged. "You've already started deducing me, haven't you? Go on, I'm curious."

There was the smallest moment where he looked unsure, but in the next moment it was gone and he was off like a shot.

"You come from a rich family," he blurted out, moving closer to her. "The state of your hair, your nails, clothes, not only impeccable but also name brands, brands that hardly anyone can afford. Your stance and your accent, the chemicals you are working with, suggests your previous education was far more extensive and expensive than most, and there is also the cologne."

"The cologne?" Harriet asked, her eyebrows furrowing.

"Yes, the cologne," Sherlock said testily. "It's faint, but I can smell it on you. I would say boyfriend, but this cologne is expensive, and any man here could not afford this particular kind of cologne."

"How do you know that he's not a boyfriend from another school?" Harriet asked, looking almost amused.

"No creases," he said simply. "If he was a boyfriend, he would have kissed you, would have hugged you, but there are no creases in your blazer or your lab coat, not one line is out of place." Sherlock was speeding up, his words rushing out rather quickly. "He wasn't here long, probably was only here out of obligation anyhow. but he was standing close to you, so there _is_ a close bond but not romantic one, so I'd say brother, not friend because you wouldn't let anyone else in this lab as long as you had to-as you said you reserved the lab for yourself and only yourself."

"What about you? You're here." Harriet responded coolly.

"The only reason I am here is because you're curious about me," Sherlock replied. "Otherwise you would have shown me the door."

Harriet and Sherlock watched each other for a moment, both wearing calm expressions.

"You argued while he was here," Sherlock continued, "you told him something he didn't like and he got angry, accidentally knocking over some tubes before he left. Not your tubes, you can see the dust that was collecting around them, and how the dust was disturbed when he knocked them over. Once he left, you got straight to work, probably to distract yourself, perhaps it's a stress reliever, most likely a stress reliever because this topic is something you and your brother have argued about for ages, something sensitive. Perhaps your family disapproves of your choice of education, but it's something more than that, isn't it, much more-" He cut off and looked her over, stepping closer again, and any closer they would have been chest to chest.

"Someone close to you both, a parent, most likely-left not too long ago. Am I wrong?"

Harriet was quiet for a moment, a corner of her mouth turning upwards into what looked like a satisfied smile. "I must say, Mr. Holmes-I'm impressed. But-there is just one thing."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"It was my mother," she said. "But she didn't leave."

"No?"

"She died," Harriet said shortly.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at this, and he cleared his throat. John could almost hear the words-_There's always something._ Not seeming to know what to do, he turned and headed for the door.

"Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock froze at the sound, then turned slowly around to face her. "Yes?'

"I expect you'll be back tomorrow?"

Sherlock frowned, looking perplexed. "Why would I be back tomorrow?"

"So you can impress me again," Harriet replied. "Unless, of course, there's somebody else."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Somebody else?"

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Holmes." Harriet said simply, and as Sherlock, with a look of utter confusion, turned to leave, the screen went black.

###

John realized his mouth was hanging slightly open as the video ended. Harriet Fleming? Who was she and why did Sherlock have a box with videos of her? Fleming…that was the last name of the man who had been murdered-but what did it mean-?

To the side of him, the front door opened. "Yoo-hoo!" came Mrs. Hudson's voice from the doorway, and John immediately moved the box underneath the couch with his foot. Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to notice, walking past him and into the kitchen with a bag of groceries.

"Watching telly, dear?" She called to him.

"Um…yeah," He called back after a moment. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes?" She asked, turning around.

He looked at her for a moment and her expectant expression, feeling the words on the tip of his tongue but for some reason was unable to get them to come. "…Never mind, it's nothing."

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Hudson questioned, looking uncertain.

"Of course," said John, quickly pasting an easy smile on his face. "It's fine."

"Alright, dear," she said after a moment's hesitation. "Well, I got some groceries for you and Sherlock…I noticed neither of you have gotten anything to eat lately…"

"You didn't have to do that, Mrs. Hudson," John said. "Really-"

"It was no trouble," Mrs. Hudson said kindly. Then her voice took on a more serious note. "How are you and Sherlock getting on?" She asked softly. "I heard that-"

What exactly Mrs. Hudson heard, John never knew, for in the next moment Sherlock came bursting in, his face bright with unexpected glee.

"Mrs. Hudson, I-" He cut off when he saw John, his expression sagging just slightly. "Oh."

"Hello," John said uncomfortably.

There was an awkward silence as the detective and the doctor stared at each other, then Mrs. Hudson piped up.

"I'll leave you two alone, shall I?"

Both John and Sherlock spoke at once.

"No, it's fine-"

"You don't have to-"

"Don't you worry about me, boys," Mrs. Hudson said genially, and brushing off their protests, she walked out the door with a cheery wave, leaving them alone in the flat.

There was a silence, then Sherlock cleared his throat. "I…see you solved the puzzle." He motioned to the hastily hidden box.

"I did." John said finally.

"Good," said Sherlock.

There was another silence, then John spoke. "Sherlock-"

"Hmm?"

"This girl, this Harriet Fleming-"

Something in Sherlock's expression shifted, but he didn't comment.

"Who is she? Is she-you know-"

"Is she what?"

John cleared his throat. "Where is she?"

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long moment, and John wondered if he was going to ignore the question.

"She's gone," he said flatly. "That's all you need to know for now."

"But-"

"Leave it, John," Sherlock suddenly snapped, and he walked past John and into the kitchen. "You have the box, and as I already said, that's all you need."

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock apparently was done talking, without another word he took an apple from the bag Mrs. Hudson left and went to his room.

**Author's Note: Sorry that took so long, everyone! Things have been crazy and I haven't had a ton of free time. I do plan on setting aside more time so updates will be more frequent than they have been as of late.**

**Anyways, to some of you, I know what you're thinking-I usually run screaming in the other direction from Sherlock/OC stories, but if you could give this a chance I would very much appreciate it! The reason why I specifically did not categorize this story as such because it will focus on more of Sherlock's past than just the OC, so hopefully it will please both sides-those who love OC and those who don't. **

**Thank you for reading and please review and let me know what you think! All feedback is appreciated! **


	5. Of Priorities and Obligations

5. Of Priorities and Obligations

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

"Oh?"

The doctor and the detective were standing on opposite sides of the kitchen, John by the refrigerator, and Sherlock on the farthest side of the table. It was morning, about 9:00 a.m., and John was making himself breakfast while Sherlock was having only a cup of tea, and this morning was typical of every breakfast they had been forced to have together for the past few weeks-silent and awkward. But today, there was something the two of them needed to discuss, and there was no getting around it.

Sherlock wasn't looking at John, instead at his cup of tea, taking a long, slow sip.

John closed his eyes for just a moment, not sure what he was going to say or how. He had thought over this conversation quite a few times already, but all the things he had planned out he couldn't even remember now. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came. Why was this so bloody difficult?

Sherlock took another slow sip of his tea, and then the words spilled out, suddenly and unexpectedly.

"I'm moving out."

Sherlock's cup came down hard on the table with a loud bang, a bit of tea sloshing over the sides onto the table. "_What_?"

John hadn't meant to put it so bluntly, when he had been thinking over how to go about this conversation he had planned to ease more gently into the topic, and had not expected to plunge in so quickly. But there was no going back now. Sherlock was staring at him, a shocked, incredulous expression on his face, looking as if John had just hit him over the head.

"I'm moving out," John repeated again.

"I heard that," Sherlock snapped. "But why the-" He cut off, looking oddly disturbed, glancing down at his cup. He glanced up at John and immediately rearranged his features into a calmer expression, but John could see, no matter how unbelievable it was, that Sherlock was genuinely unhappy with this idea.

"It's only temporary," John plowed on after a few moments of awkward silence. "I think that we, uh…just-need some space. For awhile."

"Need some space?" Sherlock asked, flabbergasted. "Why?"

John raised a skeptical eyebrow, and he had to repress the urge to roll his eyes. "Are you really going to make me spell it out for you?" John demanded.

Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration. "Because of…the…" He trailed off, looking lost.

John shook his head. Ridiculous.

"Because of the-"

"Argument."

"Right, the argument…"

"Anyway," John said curtly, "it should only be temporary, just until…we figure things out." He turned around, and made to reach for the milk. This was awkward enough as it was. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he put the milk back in the refrigerator.

"Where do you think you're going to live? You don't have the money to-"

John cut him off before Sherlock could finish another derisive comment about the state of his wallet. "I _know_, but I've already got something figured out," he said, shutting the refrigerator door a bit harder than he intended.

"And what is that?" Sherlock asked cynically.

"Mike is leaving town for business for the next few weeks," John said, turning back around to face the detective. "I've talked to him, and he said it was okay for me to stay there while he was gone."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, studying John carefully. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

"Of course I am." John responded casually.

Sherlock looked like he was at a loss for words, his hands uncurling and curling again around his cup of tea.

"Anything to say?" John asked exasperatedly.

"There's...nothing to say," Sherlock said after a pause.

"Okay then," John replied coolly. "Well, I better go."

"Go?" Sherlock asked dumbly as John began walking away.

John stopped, turning to face him. "Well, you know…I have to pack."

"…Right," Sherlock said quietly. "Okay."

There was yet another short silence, then John cleared his throat and walked away, and he could have sworn he heard Sherlock say something, but he didn't turn back to see.

###

The decision to move out, contrary to popular belief, had not been an easy one. The idea sprung into his head after watching the first video from Sherlock's puzzle box, mostly out of annoyance at Sherlock after the sudden coldness he received when he tried to talk to the detective about what he had seen. Once the annoyance wore off, however, the idea was sounding less and less ludicrous-perhaps what he and Sherlock really needed was 'time off', so to speak, some distance to sort things out. Being together just seemed to strain their friendship further, so perhaps space would help.

Then there was deciding where he was going to go, and for how long-he really didn't have the money to just move into another flat and then move right back-he needed a cheap option. He mentioned it casually to Mike one day, not expecting him to be able to offer anything, but he was surprised to hear that Mike did have an option for him-and he couldn't have asked for a better one. One month out of the flat, living somewhere for free-it was exactly what he needed.

But then again…he wasn't sure if it was actually what he wanted.

He mentally wrestled with the idea for a good week and a half before he almost forced himself to decide on moving out. It was the better decision, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

Over the next few days after breaking the news, both men tried to pretend everything was fine-but the fact of John moving out was too much for either of them to ignore, driving the wedge between them even further as the doctor prepared to leave. John didn't even have time to think about watching the second video from the puzzle box (though he was still quite curious about Harriet Fleming), there was simply too much to do.

But as much thought as John had put into this, the planning he had done, he found himself almost putting the entire process off. He was packing rather slowly, going about the preparations halfheartedly. He was procrastinating it so much so that he even though he was only packing enough for the month, he still had a long way to go-and he was moving out in two days.

Sherlock was not any happier with the idea than he was when John had first told him about it. He would disappear when John began packing, seeming to come back only when John took a break.

Today was no different-John did his packing for the day and ten minutes later, Sherlock was rushing back into the flat. "John!"

John looked up in surprise from his chair, shocked to hear Sherlock actually acknowledge his presence again. "What?"

"There's something we need to do," Sherlock said hurriedly, going to his desk and throwing things aside, searching for who knows what, pushing John's boxes out of the way.

"We?" John asked, standing up slowly. "You want me to come?" He couldn't help but be reminded of how Sherlock had flat out told him John was not allowed to go with him to any sort of thing until "further notice".

"Yes," Sherlock said, straightening up and turning to look at him. He rolled his eyes. "Why else do you think I would be saying it?" Then he paused, as if something had just occurred to him. "I mean…only if you…want to."

"I, uh…" John trailed off, studying the detective carefully. "I suppose so. Where are we going?"

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. "Here," he said, handing it to him. "If you need it."

"You can't just tell me where we're going-?"

"Not enough time, John, now let's go, come on!" Sherlock was already heading towards the door, but stopped when he noticed John wasn't following after him.

"What are you waiting for?" He turned back to look at John, eyebrows drawn in confusion.

John chuckled drily and shook his head. "I'm not doing this."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked. "You just said-"

"I know what I said," John interrupted. "But I'm not-I'm not your pet, Sherlock. I'm done with coming running every time you shake a bone in my face." John didn't know where all this anger was coming from, but whatever idea of good intentions John thought Sherlock had were gone.

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock shot back. "Why would you think that?" After a short pause, Sherlock answered his own question. "You aren't still upset about-"

"Of course I am," John snapped. "And I'm done playing the part of Sherlock Holmes' _dog_. Go on by yourself, why don't you? You've been fine without me so far, so I'm sure it will all work out for you." He sat back down, throwing Sherlock a pointed look.

"John, I-"

"I said I'm not coming."

"This is why you're moving out."

"Yes, this is the reason I'm moving out," John said snidely. "We've been over it already."

"Then perhaps," Sherlock said lowly, "it would be better if you moved out permanently."

John's head snapped up to look at Sherlock. "I'm sorry, what?"

"If I'm going to be accused of attempting to damage your ego every time I turn around," Sherlock said coldly, "perhaps it would be best if your move was permanent. I'd hate to inconvenience you any more than I already have."

With that, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

###

Thirty minutes later and John was already regretting everything he had said. That had been the first time Sherlock had tried to reach out to him in weeks, and the doctor had completely shut him down. It wasn't like John to be so sensitive-but in the past weeks he had done a lot of things that weren't like him.

_I should go after him_. The thought sounded unexpectedly in his head, and he almost immediately shook it off. _No. He doesn't want my help anymore_.

_But he might still need me_.

_That's ridiculous, he doesn't need me_.

John rolled his eyes. Now he was arguing with himself.

Still…

It wouldn't hurt to check on him. That's all, that's it. He wasn't being his puppy dog, he was being a friend, nothing more, nothing less. Sighing loudly, he got back up from his chair, going for his coat.

He pulled out the piece of paper Sherlock had given him, and went out the door. The address was one that John did not recognize, and the doctor couldn't help but wonder what the devil Sherlock was supposed to be doing at this address. Was this even his handwriting?

At the bottom, there was a time scrawled there. 4:30. John checked his watch as he walked down the stairs and out onto the street.

4:22.

Okay, that didn't really give him any time…but he hailed a taxi anyways. The drive was relatively short, which made him wonder why Sherlock left the flat so early.

The place was a lot like the street where they had met that kid Raz on the Blind Banker case, ridiculous amounts of graffiti and a few shady characters hanging around. If Sherlock and his buddy Raz got him a second ASBO, John was going to be angry, to say the least…

It was rather quiet, which John found unsettling. He was about to turn a corner when he thought better of it and stepped close to take a look around first. He could see Sherlock and a man speaking to each other about ten, maybe even fifteen feet away, but the stranger's face he couldn't see, because his back was to John. He could catch only a few words here and there of what they were saying, and John had an impression that now would not be a great time to interrupt. Their words were becoming more heated and rushed by the second, and John chose wisely to remain out of sight..

John was watching carefully when something in the top corner of his vision caught his eye. Immediately, his eyes moved to the source, and sick realization gripped him. He had to warn Sherlock-

"I have no intention of stopping," Sherlock was saying. "If you don't have anything credible to tell me, then I think we're done here."

"You don't know who you're dealing with," the other man insisted.

"I think I'll be fine," Sherlock replied coolly.

John, meanwhile, had his eyes locked on the silver glint from the top of the building, hoping, praying that he wasn't right.

"Goodbye," Sherlock was saying, and John's eyes flicked back to the detective and the other man. The man had turned halfway, enough that John could see the cold, almost smug expression on his face. There was no more doubt in John's mind anymore, and there was no time to lose.

John took off, emerging from his hiding place, leaping forward as he heard the gunshot from the sniper from above. "Get down!"

He almost made it in time-he tackled Sherlock down, hearing and feeling the bullet fly past him, a flash of pain so quick John thought he had imagined it, and then Sherlock's grunt of pain that came just before they hit the ground with a heavy thud.

John heard the running footsteps of the other man retreat down the alleyway, and then it was just them alone on the cold pavement.

"John," Sherlock groaned, as John sat up, his heart pounding. He had fouled up, if he had just come with in the first place-

"Shut up," John said anxiously, moving off him. "Let me see."

Sherlock responded with another weak cough. His face was already white and pale, contrasting horribly with the dark blood that had splashed up on his neck. "I have to take off your coat," John said unnecessarily, already working the sleeve off the detective's left arm. He was just talking to fill the space, the hollow roaring that was sounding in his ears. Sherlock had to be okay, he was going to be okay…

Once he got the coat completely off, he was able to get a better look at the wound. The sniper's bullet had caught the detective right below the collarbone on the right side, the blood from the wound already staining his shirt front, and John almost felt dizzy just looking at it. Not because he was squeamish about the bullet hole or the blood, but because this wasn't just any person who had been shot, this was Sherlock Holmes, his friend, his _friend_-

Sherlock's left hand had moved to the wound, as if trying to stop the blood with own hand, stop the pain. "Don't do that," John commanded, moving the detective's insistent hand away.

Sherlock now seemed to be in too much pain to say or do anything, his eyes fluttering closed. "No you don't," John said fiercely. "You keep your eyes on me, do you hear me?"

There was no response for a moment as Sherlock just stared up at him, and memories of eyes, eyes of soldiers who lost their lives on the battlefield flashed through John's mind. No, Sherlock was not going to be one of them, he wouldn't let him be. "Sherlock, I _said_, do you hear me?" He barked. Sherlock gave a very small nod, and his left hand reached up slowly. "…John," he said hoarsely, and he caught on to John's wrist, squeezing feebly.

"It's okay," John said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "It's alright, just keep your eyes on me." He took off his coat and held it to Sherlock's wound, applying pressure. "Do that for me, please…"

Sherlock responded with another weak squeeze, and he was good to his word, keeping his eyes firmly on John. John sat back on his heels and pulled out his phone, immediately calling an ambulance, fumbling for the paper with the address on it with his other hand.

Once he got off the phone, he gave Sherlock's left wrist a quick squeeze. "It's going to be okay, alright?" He said, and he wondered who he really was trying to convince, Sherlock or himself.

"John," Sherlock gasped out. "I never…I never…"

"It's okay, save your breath," John said, trying to sound assuring. "You need to save your breath."

Sherlock shook his head determinedly. " You…you've never been…"

John's eyebrows furrowed as Sherlock struggled to speak, his jaw working but all that was coming was laboured, pained breaths.

"Never been…a pet…to me…"

"It's alright now, I don't care about that anymore," John said, his heart hammering even harder in his chest. "Okay?"

"No!" Sherlock insisted, shaking his head again. "…you don't…you don't understand…"

John didn't have time, he had to help-do something for Sherlock-but he couldn't remember, couldn't think, now when it counted the most-the blood had soaked through John's coat, Sherlock's blood was on his fingers, his hands-

Suddenly, there was the sound of sirens coming from around the corner, and John's heart leapt. How they had gotten here so quickly he didn't care, or maybe more time had passed than he thought. Either way, it didn't matter.

It was then he noticed the sharp pain in his own arm, which would explain the small lack of clarity he was experiencing, coupled with the stress of Sherlock being hurt. The bullet must have grazed his arm...

The paramedics were there in what seemed like only moments, lifting Sherlock onto the stretcher. Sherlock kept his hand locked around John's wrist all the while, and John squeezed back, keeping his hand around Sherlock's wrist, pressing gently to remind Sherlock he was there, during which the detective kept his word from earlier, keeping his eyes on John, and it hurt to see, the pain clouding his friend's eyes.

John tried to tune out Sherlock's moans and soft cries of pain as he was moved into the ambulance, but he couldn't, they stood out over the sounds of the paramedics talking and moving, especially the one that was trying to communicate with John, forcing him to let go of his friend so they could take a look at the doctor's shoulder. "I'm fine!" He heard himself saying roughly, trying to shake them off, but they persisted, and his hand slipped from Sherlock's wrist, and he was being moved away from Sherlock, back onto the pavement, and the doors were closing, and John heard the detective say his name, but the doors were already shut, it was too late, just as it was too late to tell Sherlock that he was sorry, sorry he had not been there when the detective had needed him-not just today, but weeks ago, when Sherlock had come home from that Fleming case, when all of this had began.

And he would never forgive himself if he never got that chance again.

**Author's Note: Sorry about the wait! I hope you enjoyed this anyways, and please do review! Thank you! :) **


	6. The Ones Who Define Us

6. The Ones Who Define Us

Sherlock was not one to dream, but tonight was an exception. Memories that he had locked up and stored away long ago were coming to the surface, swirling around his mind, making themselves heard for the first time in years, coming back in vivid, painful quality.

"_Hand it over, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock's arms tightened around the small brown dog, and he shook his head determinedly. "No."_

_Sherlock's father, from above him, sighed. "You're just making the creature more miserable by keeping it alive."_

_Sherlock bit his lip, feeling the tears burning at the back of his eyes. He looked into the face of his little dog, and in response, the dog weakly licked his chin, and then let his head drop back onto Sherlock's chest feebly. He looked up at his father, shaking his head again. "He'll get through it," he said. "He always does."_

_It was true his dog was ill, and with his old age the creature wasn't faring at all well._

_"It's not going to this time," said Sherlock's father flatly. "Please be sensible for once and give the dog to me." He tapped his foot impatiently with his big shiny black shoes, clacking loudly against the tile floor, waiting. "You are eleven years old, Sherlock. You should be far past all this nonsense." He grunted impatiently, and Sherlock could almost hear the words he wanted to say-_why can't you be more like Mycroft?

_This unsaid but clearly implied comment should have stung, but just thinking of his brother made him roll his eyes. The last thing that he ever wanted was to be like _Mycroft_._

_"Don't roll your eyes at me," Sherlock's father snapped. "Let go of the dog, Sherlock, or I will have to take it by force." _

_Sherlock was running out of time-sheer willpower was not going to keep his father from taking away his pet. He knew as a small child, he had one last available ploy._

_He looked up at his father, twisting his face into the most innocent expression he could muster, clutching even more tightly to the dog in his arms. "Daddy…please don't make me give him away-"_

_"Mr. Holmes," Sherlock's father barked, correcting him. "How many times have I told you that you do not address me as 'daddy'. You are much too old for such childish behavior." He bent down. "You have stretched my patience far enough," he said as he pried Sherlock's fingers off the sickly dog, despite the little boy's protests, removing the dog by the scruff of its neck._

_"You have always been too much like your mother," Sherlock's father said curtly over his son's cries. "Caring so much about things that matter so little."_

_Sherlock leapt to his feet and tried to run to his dog's aid, but his father stopped him with a strong hand. _

_"This behavior will only bring you to harm, Sherlock," Sherlock's father said roughly, opening up the carrier at his feet and putting the whimpering dog inside. "I know you don't believe me now, but I'm trying to help you." He shut the door on the carrier, and the dog's whimpers cut off. "One day you'll thank me."_

_"Daddy-"_

_"Mr. Holmes!" Sherlock's father shouted, whirling to face his son, his eyes wild with fury as he seized the small boy by the shoulders roughly, his fingers digging painfully into his skin. "Do you understand?" He demanded, giving Sherlock a shake._

_"Do you _understand_?" Sherlock's father yelled again, giving him an even more violent shake. "Do you?"_

_Sherlock nodded quickly and frantically, swallowing back the sob in his throat. "Yes," he choked._

_"Yes, what?" Sherlock's father said expectantly, his fingers still gripped in an iron vice around the little boy's shoulders._

_Sherlock wanted to run, wanted to hide, but he looked his father in the eyes and spoke, his body trembling but his voice steady._

_"Yes, Mr. Holmes."_

_"Good." Sherlock's father released him, pushing him away, and Sherlock quickly stepped back as the older man straightened up. He turned and picked up the carrier, and began to walk out. He opened the door then paused, turning to look back at Sherlock. "Do not disappoint me like this again, Sherlock, or I fear that one day you'll end up in a place you don't want to be."_

The dream shifted, and he was 20 years old again, standing across from Harriet Fleming in the dark lab.

_"I said, _leave me alone_!" Sherlock snapped, quickly hiding the plastic baggy in his coat. "It's nothing."_

_"It doesn't look like nothing," Harriet insisted._

_"It _is_ nothing," Sherlock snarled back._

_"If it really is nothing," Harriet shot back, "then prove it to me."_

_Sherlock's hand instinctively went to his pocket. Quickly, he removed it, straightening his coat to disguise what he had just done. "Prove what?" He asked, though he knew exactly what she wanted him to prove._

_"Prove to me that it's nothing," she said slowly, her voice quiet, but pulsing with anger. Her eyes were locked on his, a silent dare._

_He stared back at her for a moment, fingering the edge of the bag in his pocket. "No." He said finally, stepping back. "No, I don't have to prove anything to you."_

_"Then it's not nothing, is it?" She said calmly._

_Rage leapt up in Sherlock's chest like fire, and the next thing he knew he had seized Harriet by the shoulders and was shaking her violently._

_"Why would it matter you what it is, anyways?" Sherlock demanded, his heart pumping wildly in his chest. "Why-in the devil-would it matter-to you?" He shouted, accentuating each pause with another shake, each more vicious than the last. "If I say it's nothing, it's _nothing_, do you understand?"_

_Tears were welling up in Harriet's eyes, but she took this abuse without comment, staring up at him with a defiant but hurt expression, and suddenly the memory of an older man's hands gripping his shoulders painfully overcame him and the sound of the man's shouting voice ringing in his ears, sounding so horribly like his, and in a sudden bout of shame, Sherlock released Harriet and stepped away._

_"Fine," he said defeatedly, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out the plastic baggy, throwing it onto the floor between them. "There. Are you happy now?" _

_Harriet was staring at him with an odd expression, a combination of pity and anger as she stepped forward. Her eyes were still bright with unshed tears, her expression taut as she bent down to pick up the bag, shaking back the sleeves of her oversized lab coat. _

_She straightened up, but she didn't open the bag, it was clear enough what was inside it, the white powder an obvious sign. She was quiet for too long, gazing at the little plastic bag._

_"Why do you have this?" She asked finally._

_"It's just an experiment," he said resignedly, shrugging his shoulders. "It's nothing, it doesn't matter."_

_"Of course it matters," Harriet snapped. "Don't you understand that? __This isn't something you should just experiment with!"_

_"And why not?"_

_"Because it's dangerous!"_

_"Why should that matter?"_

_"It matters, Sherlock, because I _care_ what happens to you," Harriet shouted back. Then she blinked, almost as if she was surprised by this admittance. _

_Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed just for a moment, then he worked his features into a nonchalant expression. "Keep it then, if it's so important to you," he said waspishly, and he turned to leave. "I won't use it."_

_He was at the door when she finally spoke up._

_"Do you have any more?"_

_He turned back to her, her expression now one of earnest._

_"No," he said honestly, and he saw her shoulders relax._

_"Good."_

_There was a short, awkward pause, and then Sherlock turned away again. "I'll be back tomorrow." With that he opened the door and left, walking into the darkness. _

The darkness seemed to swallow him whole and eject him into the next scene of his dream.

_It took him a moment to realize he was in the flat, standing by the fireplace, a cigarette dangling in his fingers. John was standing across from him, looking furious. "What are you doing?"_

_Sherlock raised the cigarette to his lips, taking a long, slow drag, then blowing the smoke into John's face._

_John immediately began to sputter and cough, waving the smoke away from his face. A harsh, dry laugh escaped Sherlock's lips. "What do you think, John? Surely this isn't beyond even _your_ powers of observation?"_

_"You're supposed to be going cold turkey-"_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another drag. "I don't have to do anything. Also," he said mockingly, "I thought that you weren't talking to me."_

_"Don't change the subject," John snapped. "Is this some idiotic way of getting back at me?"_

_"Of course not," Sherlock replied. "If I wanted to 'get back' at you, I assure you this would not be the way I would go about it."_

_"Either way," John said, "you can't do this."_

_"Now we've gone from 'supposed to' to 'can't'," Sherlock said, forcing a light tone as anger flared up in his chest. "Who are you to say whether I can or cannot do something?"_

_John opened his mouth to retort, but shut it again. Then he spoke, having reconsidered his original comeback. "I-I have to live here too-"_

_"No you don't," Sherlock said. "You don't have to live here. No one is making you stay here, and _no one_ said you had to look after me."_

_Sherlock spoke again before John could answer. "Which begs the question, John," he said, taking a step closer to John, "why are you still here?"_

_"I'm-I'm your friend," John said after a moment, looking confused._

_"No you're not," Sherlock spat. "You have never been, and never will be my friend. You, you are nothing but a man I was forced to share space with."_

_John's expression crumpled, twisted by the pain of Sherlock's words, but the detective did not care, the fury and the rage building up in his chest, he had no idea where it was coming from but that didn't matter to him._

_"Was?"_

_The corner of Sherlock's mouth twisted upward into a cold smile, and the next thing he knew John was on the ground, Sherlock had hit him, and had hit him as hard as he could-John was bleeding from his nose, his eye swelling at an unnaturally rapid pace, and he struck again and again, and John shouted and cried out but the detective was being driven by some sick, vicious force that he could not control, and a disgusting pleasure was joining the fury, but overwhelming it all was the shame and the confusion, this wasn't supposed to be happening, and why couldn't he stop, why couldn't he stop-?_

_"Sherlock, please," John spat through his bloodied mouth, and something inside of Sherlock cracked, and the detective's hand was up again, preparing for another blow-_

"_NO_!" Sherlock heard himself scream, and his body propelled itself forwards, John's limp figure and the flat vanishing and the detective awoke, the scream still ripping its way out his throat. It was a dream, it was all a dream.

His entire body was shaking, trembling even, and he was breathing so hard he thought he might pass out, black dots dancing in his vision. It was horribly hot, and he could feel the sweat on his face, his body, and a sharp, almost crippling pain at his collarbone as he tried to calm down. The image of John, hurt and powerless, and the image of his own hand hitting his friend came again, and again, and the words he had said-

He was sitting up in a white, plain bed, and he could not for a moment even guess where he could be, and he looked around frantically, his breathing becoming even more fast paced. "John? John? _John_!" He began to shout, his heart pounding so fast it felt as if it was thrashing itself against his rib cage. "John!"

He was dizzy, so dizzy and weak that it took a moment for him to locate the door. He had to get up and find John, had to make sure he was okay, make sure that he had not done the unthinkable to his friend, his only friend…but it hurt, it hurt too much to get up.

"_John_!" The word practically was torn from his throat as the doctor didn't come, didn't come, and his eyes closed briefly as the pain washed over him. It wasn't…he couldn't have….

"Sherlock?"

He could feel someone's hands on his shoulders, but his vision was blurring in and out, and his head was pounding along with his heart, he could hardly focus on whoever was holding him.

"Sherlock, do you hear me?" John's face came into focus just above him, undamaged and unhurt.

"John?"

"Yeah," John said, sounding relieved. "Come on, calm down, it's alright."

Sherlock's racing heart was beginning to slow to a normal pace, relief flooding over him. John was alright, he was okay, it really had all been a dream after all.

"Come on, lay back, you're fine," John was saying, and he gently pushed Sherlock back into his pillows. He placed a cool hand on Sherlock's forehead, and tsked. "Still burning up," John said quietly, probably more to himself than Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked, trying to focus, but he felt as though he was living in a haze.

"It's not like you to have nightmares," John said under his breath, studying Sherlock's face. His face was creased with worry, and he had dark circles underneath his eyes, looking as if he hadn't slept properly for days.

"I'm going to go get your doctor," John said after a moment's silence.

"My…doctor?" Sherlock asked dumbly. He was in the hospital?

"Do you remember anything, Sherlock?" John asked, a note of concern touching his voice.

Sherlock closed his eyes, but all he could see were the images from his dream, his father, Harriet, John…."I-"

"That's okay, I don't expect you to right now. Just sleep, I'll explain more when you wake up."

Sherlock frowned. Explain…explain what?

He hadn't realized he had spoken aloud until John responded.

"Don't worry about it now. Rest."

"John-"

"_Rest_," John said, more firmly this time.

Sherlock was feeling very, very tired, and John was okay, so it must be okay…

He closed his eyes, and the blackness once again swallowed him up.

###

Sherlock was definitely having a rough time of it. In the week and a half he had been in the hospital, he had been drifting in and out of consciousness, battling with a high fever and complete delirium. Last night had probably been the first time he had been really aware of anyone else in the room, John could tell the man had been living only in his nightmares the past few days. This concerned John, Sherlock was not the kind of man who had nightmares, but then again, nor was he the kind of man who would ever admit that he did.

John had no idea who or what the detective was dreaming about-Sherlock didn't talk at all in his sleep, only writhed and cried out, which was extremely difficult for John to watch. He stayed because no matter what had happened to them in the past few weeks, no matter what words they had said or the things they had done, John didn't want Sherlock to be alone. Not only that, but in light of recent events, the cold words they had thrown each other and their cruel actions seemed to matter very little. Sherlock was hurt, and that was what was important.

The past week he had been spending his nights on a cot in Sherlock's room, spending sleepless nights calming his friend's fevered nightmares. It had been touch and go for awhile, and John had been absolutely terrified more than once that he was going to lose Sherlock. Now, however, the doctors fully expected him to recover, though for the time being, his health was still rather shaky.

It was morning, and he was on his way to get himself some breakfast when a nurse stopped him, informing him that Sherlock was awake and his fever had gone down enough that he was able and coherent to harass the other nurses about their lifestyle choices.

"He made Tabitha cry," said the nurse reproachfully. "You better do something about him."

John couldn't help the chuckle that came to his lips; his friend may not be doing well-but he had to be feeling better if he was harassing people again.

He turned right back around and returned to Sherlock's room. The door was closed, and he knocked once before receiving an affirmative grunt from the other side of the door. He opened it to see Sherlock sitting up in bed, completely awake. Pale, sick, and in pain, but still awake nonetheless, which was definitely an improvement. He was not alone, there was a young female nurse nervously scurrying about around him, tentatively going about her work.

"John!" Sherlock barked, scaring the young nurse half to death, "will you tell this ridiculous nurse that I don't want or need her help?"

"Behave," John warned him. "Sorry about him," he said kindly to the nurse, who gave a half grateful, half terrified nod and scuttled away.

"You shouldn't have treated her like that," John scolded, but he did so in vain because Sherlock didn't seem to care.

"How long have I been here?" Sherlock asked roughly, looking around distastefully at the small room.

"Nearly two weeks," John replied. "Though I suppose you really don't remember much of it, you were delirious most of the time." He paused, studying Sherlock. "Do…do you remember anything?"

"I remember why I'm here in the hospital, if that's what you mean," Sherlock said, more softly than John expected him to.

"So you remember the shooting," John said, taking the chair by his bed.

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly. He paused for a moment, then spoke again. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"You saved my life," Sherlock said meekly. "After-after all that I have done, it's more than I deserve."

John blinked, surprised. "...You're welcome," he said after a moment's hesitation.

"And what I said before, I meant it," Sherlock said. "You're not a pet to me, and-and I was wrong for saying so. I was wrong for all the things I said-"

"Hey," John interrupted gently, "it's okay."

"No, it isn't!" Sherlock said loudly, pounding a hand on the bed. He winced slightly, then went on. "It's not-"

"Calm down, alright? Don't overexert yourself, you're still-" John cut off, looking for the right word-"delicate." He cringed, perhaps that wasn't the appropriate word.

They were both quiet for a few long moments, then Sherlock spoke before John could.

"Can…can you forgive me?"

John cocked his head, looking at Sherlock, a corner of his mouth turned upwards. "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock wasn't amused. "John-"

"Don't worry about it, I'm joking," John said.

"I mean it," Sherlock replied. "I called you abominable, unforgivable things. I treated you abominably, and-and I'm sorry."

To say the very least, John was shocked-never had he received such a sincere apology from the detective, mostly, though, he was touched. He pretended to consider the detective for a moment, then spoke, slowly. "I can, on two conditions."

Sherlock seemed to perk up, his eyes brightening. "Anything."

"Number one," John said seriously, "is that you would consider forgiving me. I can't pretend that I wasn't at all in the wrong. And two," he continued, "I'll need some answers."

"Answers?" Sherlock asked, perplexed.

"It's time to stop keeping secrets from me," John said. "At least, secrets like this, like this Harriet Fleming. I don't know why you were meeting that man in that alleyway, or why you got shot, but I think you do. If you want me to forgive you and trust you again, you have to start trusting _me_."

Sherlock was silent for what felt like a lifetime, scrutinizing John thoughtfully. "I trust you," he said finally.

They both were quiet for another few seconds, then Sherlock spoke again. "And there's some things you need to know."

**Author's Note: I apologize again for the wait! I hope you enjoyed it and please, let me know what you think!**


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